


tome of many drabbles

by mel_lifluously



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - World of Darkness (Games) Setting, Baked Goods, Ballet, Character Study, Coffee, Drabble Collection, Empire Siblings - Freeform, F/F, Food, Found Family, Gen, Language of Flowers, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, Lorelei Siblings, Memories, Mentions of blood and violence, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Sleep and Dreams, Team Feels, The Xhorhouse, beau is so soft for jester, headcanons, hugs for everyone, pretty mild but please stay safe all the same, projecting my love of baking on these characters because of course, rare bright moments in caleb's past, that feeling of having something really your own in a controlling environment, the Blumenthal Drei, yasha loves the nein so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mel_lifluously/pseuds/mel_lifluously
Summary: A collection of small stories featuring the quieter, gentler moments between the infamous disasters of the Mighty Nein.
Relationships: Astrid & Eodwulf & Caleb Widogast, Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast, Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett, Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha Nydoorin
Comments: 40
Kudos: 89





	1. memento

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write something for Critical Role for so long and after two long years of tuning into the show I've finally mustered the courage and executive functioning to do it. I love this series and these characters so much and I really hope I can do them justice. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed - it would make my day! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb flips through his journal and looks back on old memories.

Caleb’s notebook - the small, tattered one, ink - stained and ragged - is filled page by page with memories, preserved with desperate, painstaking care. For once, though, these memories are bright. 

The freckles on Eodwulf’s face, his dimples when he smiled, his crooked teeth and his massive sheepdog familiar flopping down on his lap in a heap of smoke - gray fluff . His messy notes, spattered with droplets of ink as he gestured grandly with his quill. His storyteller’s spirit, the warmth in his voice, whispering little tales about his life back home (when they still were able to remember such things). How he loved to make bread but always ended up burning the loaves black. How he’d tend his family’s little herb garden late into autumn, even when the leaves were spiderwebbed with frost. How he’d spent hours crashing through the woods with his little siblings looking for their runaway cow. 

Astrid’s eyes, intense gray-blue, that would crinkle just a bit when she figured out a tricky bit of spellwork; the way she’d twine her fingers through the short curls of her hair when she was thinking; her wry laughter when he stepped on her feet as they danced. Her tiny nightingale familiar fluttering to perch at her wrist, blunt claws digging into the leather bracers.

The early mornings in the library, all three of them bleary-eyed and sore, studying together over cups of weak tea, driven by the belief that they would make things better. How naive they’d been. How naive indeed.


	2. botanicals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yasha gets tattoos, when it’s all over.

Yasha gets tattoos, when it’s all over. A bouquet of small flowers, painted in splashes of color against the pale of her scarred skin.

Dandelion blossoms, scrappy and tough and bright as the sun, fiercely beautiful in their determination to live.

Spring crocus, grand blue petals fanning out like the whirling skirts of a dancer, splashing barren land with joyful color.

Marsh - rose and sea - lavender, flashy blooms with deep, sturdy roots that anchor in rich soil and hold firm against the waves.

Deep blue cornflowers, their petals ragged and fraying like old silk but standing proud and tall.

Pastel tea roses, reaching up to catch the rays of an unseen sun with all the devotion of the faithful before their god.

Sprigs of humble marigold, burnt orange and yellow, bright as hearthfire glow.

At the center of it all - an orchid, lurid and brilliant, petals as richly purple as the velvet cloak of a king.


	3. sylphide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching Jessie dance is an experience.

You’ve never had much of an appreciation for dancing. Back home in Kamordah, the only dancers you ever knew were the performers your dad would drag his stuffy wine snob friends to see at the theater whenever he felt he hadn’t kissed up to them enough. They were beautiful and elegant and cloyingly, sweetly, stiffly feminine - everything he wanted you to be. Everything you’d come to avoid like the plague. Whenever he’d come home from one of those shows and make some snide comment about how proud those parents must be to have such talented daughters, you’d fire back like a reflex. Saw off another inch of your hair, stain your dress with mud and grass, steal another “forbidden” book from his library. Anything to forget those sugar-coated porcelain dolls.

  
But Jessie? Jessie’s different.

  
Watching her dance is an experience. A revelation. She floats along on the tips of her toes, sure, and she’s laced delicately into those glittery satin shoes. But where they were doll-like, she’s bursting with life. Her eyes shine with laughter, her skirts whisper like they’re sharing a secret, she giggles like a bell chime whenever she wobbles off balance. Her steps stutter and bounce. She leaps like she’s flying, rocketing up to reach the painted ceiling with her outstretched arms, her eyes shut tight like she’s making a wish.

  
And when she pulls you onto the floor with her, to help her with a lift or support her in a turn or just because it’s _fun_ , Beau, come on - she holds your hand and her smile melts into something wistful and fond and your heart gives one of its stupid little flutters. She guides you away from the graceful whirling of her dance into something close and quiet and achingly tender, a gentle swaying, her head on your shoulder. And you, ridiculous fool that you are, hold her close and pretend you’re not falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not know much about ballet but I am incredibly soft for dance and pining and tenderness and the boundless, graceless, beautiful joy that is Jester Lavorre


	4. reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The empire siblings have a chat about notebooks, feelings, weird smut and memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer one this time and a sort of spiritual successor to the first drabble. I love these empire siblings and their awkward way of looking out for each other. Please stay safe and steer clear of this one if you're uncomfortable with discussions of abuse in the context of Beau and Caleb's backstories.

It takes a while for you to get up the courage to talk to her. Quite a while. You’ve spent the last hour pacing and fidgeting and giving Frumpkin half-hearted speeches about why this is a terrible idea, you should very much not do it and you are going to return to your book now, thank you very much. The cat - little instigator that he is - blocks off this method of avoidance halfway through your latest monologue by hopping up onto your desk, curling up into a ball on the worn cover of your spellbook, giving you a pointed look and shutting his eyes. 

“That - that is very unfair,” you protest, waving a hand indignantly. A wave of sly mischievousness floods your bond in response. _Problem solved,_ it seems to say, rumbling with a soundless, satisfied purr. 

You hover in the doorway a moment longer, wondering faintly how your own familiar could have betrayed you like this, before another mental nudge - like the tap of a paw against your shoulder - pushes you forward a step. _Go. You’ll be just fine_. 

“I will be just fine,” you repeat, soft, like a mantra. Like the prayers the clerics whisper on the battlefield. “I will be fine. She has been my - my traveling companion for some time now. I can share things with her if I so choose.” 

You close your hand around the tiny, precious journal in your pocket, take a deep breath and knock three times on Beauregard’s door. 

A grumbled, sleepy “the _fuck_?,” then silence. 

You come so close to taking the gods-granted opportunity to run back down the hallway and escape into your room before steeling yourself and knocking again. One, two, three. Clean and measured and precise. 

“Door’s open, Jessie. You don’t have to knock.” “No - _nein,_ Jester is not - Jester is downstairs.” 

A pause. A shuffle of quiet footsteps. You flinch back a bit as the door swings open, revealing a thoroughly rumpled Beauregard. She blinks at you for a moment, her expression softening just a fraction as she takes in your obvious unease. “You okay?” 

“More or less.” 

“You’ve gotta know by now that I’m gonna call bullshit on that.” 

“That may be wise.” 

She raises an eyebrow and gestures for you to continue. 

“I, ah, I have something that I would like to discuss with you. Something of some importance.” 

“‘Of some importance?’ So like, quest stuff?” 

You swallow thickly, shake your head. “No, not exactly. Nothing quite so urgent. Memories. Of my past… education.. Since you were so open as to share your history, I thought it was only right to unveil a bit more of mine. Is that something you would be comfortable -” 

To your faint shock she nods immediately, opening the door a crack for you to step through. “Yeah, yeah, absolutely. Do you want Nott to be here for this, or -” 

“No, no, she is with Yeza.” 

“Alright.” She knows you well enough by now not to push. Thank Ioun for small miracles. “You can sit wherever,” she says, gesturing widely around the room as she flops back on her bed. You instinctively scan the unfamiliar space as you hover in the threshold - Jester’s art desk, covered in paint splotches and far too realistically rendered genitalia; Beauregard’s teetering stack of books, their blue leather spines stamped with the Cobalt Soul insignia; an expensive half-melted candle spilling warm yellow light across the floor and filling the air with the scent of sugar and flowers. You spot a rickety wooden chair in the far shadowed corner of the room and make for it before Beau rolls her eyes - not unkindly - and pats the foot of the bed. 

“C’mon, Widogast. We’re gonna be adults about this. Gonna have feelings out in the open.” 

“Is that what makes one an adult where you come from?” 

“Yeah. Real important milestone.” 

“In that case, I had not realized we were still traveling with a child. It puts so much in perspective.” 

“Get over here and sit your ass down already.” You smile wryly in spite of yourself and do as she says, inching over to perch on the very edge of the soft pile of blankets. 

“So,” she says after a moment of painfully awkward silence. “Feelings.” 

“Yes.” 

“Any in particular you’ve been feelin’?” 

“Quite a few.” 

“Can you be a little more specific than that?” She lifts one bandaged hand to jab you gently in the shoulder. “Show me what the important thing is. Lay it on me.”

_I will be just fine. I will be just fine. I trust her._ Nerve slipping away bit by tenuous bit, you reach into your coat pocket and withdraw your journal. It looks so innocent, laying there on the bed. Its oiled leather cover dark as coal against the starched white blankets, its ragged pages translucent in the pale light. Just as damnably unassuming as it’s always been. 

You clear your throat thickly, finding the words. “Has Nott told you about my notebook? My, ah, other notebook. I would just like to gauge how much you know. Before we take this deep dive into ‘feelings.’”

She nods. “One night after you went to bed. Back at that open bar place in Zadash. Didn’t tell me what it was or what’s in it, just that you had a ‘secret book.’ Then Jester asked if it was porn and the conversation kinda stopped.” 

You smile ruefully. “That is about what I expected, I suppose. It is not porn. To everyone’s great disappointment, I’m sure.” 

“Yours included?” 

“Mine included. I imagine I’d have to be much less secretive if it were.” 

“That depends, man. Who knows what kind of weird shit you’re into.” She pauses and hums a bit, thinking. “Do you think wizard sex is like, a thing? Like Essek or whoever uses his arcane powers to bone down? Are people into that?” 

This rampant train of thought startles a laugh out of you. “I cannot say that I have much knowledge of wizard sex, but I don’t doubt that there are some. Jester seems to be an expert on this sort of thing - perhaps you should ask her?”

You don’t miss the tiny, wistful smile that ghosts across her face at the name. “Yeah. Maybe she’d know. Anyway -” She shakes herself out of the daydream with a roll of her shoulders and fixes you with a pointed if not unkind look. “Back to feelings.” 

“Back to feelings.” You pick the notebook up and ruffle gently through the pages, the flood of memories crashing over you as it always does. The sketches, the notes, the scraps of paper and snippets of old books, the coffee stains and ink splashes. Closing your eyes, you find your way to the proper page. The drawing of both of them. 

“These were my - well, I suppose they were more than friends. We studied together. This was Astrid -” you trace your finger over the sketchy rendering of the girl, standing proud and tall with her nightingale on her shoulder, that familiar crinkle to the corner of her eyes. “She was always the ambitious one. Brighter than any of us. She made her mission to learn everything the world had to offer. Nothing was ever out of her reach. Once, when she learned that our other friend and I hadn’t learned to dance, she spent the rest of the night teaching us how. I would not have known how to waltz if not for her. That and - many other things.” Your scars pulse dully, and a tiny flicker of flame dances across your fingertips before guttering into a wisp of smoke. _No. No bad memories now. This is not the time._

“What happened to her?”

“That I am not sure of. I haven’t heard from her since - since things went wrong. I can only hope that she found her way out intact. She deserves that much.” You sigh, trace your still gently smouldering fingertip along the worn out page. “She had a wicked sense of humor as well, you know. Coarse as a sailor, and clever. She’d figure out what made you tick, what made you laugh, within moments of knowing you. Always was good at reading people. And Eodwulf -'' you look at the drawing of the young man beside her, tall and strong, that little smile on his face - “he was kind. Big and tough and strong, but so kind. Gentlest soul I knew for quite some time. He told us stories about his farm back in Blumenthal, his little garden. How he’d tend the plants every day and make sure they reached the sun.” 

“So he was kinda like Cad?” 

“I suppose he was. He was good. I miss them both very much.” 

She reaches a hand out and rests it with surprising gentleness on your shoulder. “Yeah, I get that. They sound like they were good.” She pauses for a moment. “You know that you didn’t deserve the shit you went through, right? None of you did. If you can think of them as being nice kids who were manipulated by a fucked up monster, you can think of yourself that way too.” 

“I was not a nice kid, Beauregard.” 

“Doesn’t change anything. No kid deserves to be treated like that.” 

“Would you say the same for yourself?” 

The silence is heavy for a long, long moment. “If I did, would you try? Make it a part of our hold - each - other - accountable deal?” She lifts the hand off of your shoulder and holds it out for you to shake on it. 

You take a deep breath and take her hand in your own. “I will try.” 

She nods, just a little, and gives a proper businessman’s handshake. “Alright. Cool.” 

“Cool.” Still holding her hand, you give it a little squeeze. “You did deserve better than the way your father treated you, Beauregard. He was a dick, and he was wrong. You deserved a family that loved you as you were. And our little group, I believe you may have one.” 

“Thanks, Caleb,” she says at last, her eyes watery as she smiles at you and pops you gently on the shoulder. 

“Of course.” 

The two of you sit like that for a while, watching as the moonlight filters in narrow silver bars through the window, and for the first time in a long, long time, your mind is quiet. 


	5. goodnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nein rest, and heal, in their own ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at 1:00 AM instead of sleeping. Because of course.
> 
> This is definitely a melancholy one, so keep that in mind as you proceed! It's also more of a loosely tied together collection of headcanons.

Tall, lanky, gangling Caduceus sleeps in a graceless sprawl - birch - bough limbs akimbo, blankets kicked aside to litter the floor in puddles of fabric. His pillows, though, all remain precisely in place, with a carefully tied cloth sachet of fresh leaves and rich soil tucked under each - a token of the Wildmother meant to prevent the dreaming spirit from wandering too far.

(After he learns of his team members’ nightmares, he makes a few extra each night, just in case. This is something he can do. This is how he can help. This - while not grand, not world - shaking, not an all - encompassing destiny - is a way to make his garden grow. ) 

Jester sleeps in nests - mountains of soft blankets and fluffy pillows, arranged into such an intricate pile of coziness that only the delicately curled tips of her horns are visible. She has honed her craft into a truly impressive art, rigorously scrutinizing a prospective blanket’s warmth and softness with the help of her panel of roommates and condemning it to the depths of “blanket jail” if it doesn’t make the cut.

(It never leaves Jester's mind that this is something she can finally share. That this thing - this small, silly thing she clung to on those dark nights when Mama was working and the Traveler was silent and her room was cold and lonely - isn't hers alone anymore. It makes her smile.) 

Yasha didn’t used to sleep on her side - not before the Xhorhaus, anyway. She was a soldier, used to making due with whatever conditions the field could offer. She contented herself with resting flat on her back under the wide open bowl of the sky, one eye open to track the steady approach of the storm clouds far above. Now, though, with the soft bed and the warm furs and the mural, the splendid flowers, so beautiful and real she could almost reach out to touch them - she curls up on her side, dreaming of a field drenched in sunshine, her arms reaching to hold someone who isn’t there.

(When she wakes, she is still alone, but it is enough to pretend for a while.)

Beau falls asleep at her desk more often than in her own bed, slumped over her notes, one splayed hand supporting her face while the other dangles loosely, her pen clattering to the floor. Her shoulders remain squared, taut, the muscles corded even in her dreams.

(A girl so often called lazy, called sloppy, called worthless - unteachable - waste of time had to find a way to prove them wrong, no matter what. When she wakes now with her observations unfinished but a blanket around her shoulders and her notebook gently closed, she smiles just a little and accepts. _Fuck anyone else. They think it’s enough_.) 

Fjord, like Yasha, spent much of his life contenting himself with what little rest he could scrounge. The shipyards never slept, humming with the energy of the city and the pulse of the tide, and the open ocean, while more peaceful than any land he’d ever known, was too mercurial to trust for long. He held himself still in his roughspun hammock, every muscle tense in an effort to counteract the shift and roll of the waves.

(Now, though, planted firmly on dry land with the changeable sea far away, he sleeps deep and steady, a sigil of the Wildmother and a cloth sachet of leaves held close to his chest.)

Sleep has always been a nightly battle for Caleb - one that, despite his best efforts, he never seems to win. When he was a student, he lived off of strong coffee and spite, running on fumes for long stretches of time before crashing in a heap of scattered notes and rumpled robes. Pushing himself past the brink of exhaustion became something of a grim badge of pride. A sign of his willingness to do what the Empire would surely ask of him - to bend the so called rules of the world in the name of the cause.

(Rest still doesn’t come easily, so many years later. The shame, the self destruction, the stubborn, undying urge to push himself, they have never left him. But now when the night grows late he looks over at the sleeping forms of his ~~friends loved ones newfound family~~ traveling companions and thinks _they would not ask this of me. They would not want me to hurt for their sake._ And with his cat curled up on his lap, his ragged coat draped around his shoulders, he listens to their steady breathing and closes his eyes. Just for a little while.)

Veth has always slept curled up small, defensive, even when she was resting in the sunlit farmhouse loft, wrapped in quilts and her husband’s arms. The world never truly feels safe to someone like Veth Brenatto - not when the next cruel word or sidelong glare is always just around the corner. Not when so few things can be trusted as they are. 

(Now, though, now that’s she’s found her place to belong, with these people who loved her when she could scarcely tolerate herself, she uncurls. She relaxes. She gives her friends - _her friends,_ these beloved, ragtag wonders - a tired smile, and drifts off into dreams.)


	6. cinnamon and saffron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nein and sweets and memories. (multi - part headcanon series)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More headcanons! I've had a lot of time to bake over the past couple months and with this little series I now have the chance to combine that hobby with my other dearest love - overly detailed, flowery descriptions of food.  
> These are a little longer, so I'm going to break them into multiple chapters - two characters for each. First up - our sad wizard man and our very own Captain Tusktooth!

Blumenthal, like any other good, salt - of - the - earth Empire village, was built on apple trees and wheat fields. Its people marked the seasons by the slow fading of the fields from swathes of green to burnished, sun - soaked gold and the steady ripening of bitter buds into sweet red fruit. Rainy springtime and white flowers faded into mild summer and budding fruit tumbled into cool autumn and low - slung boughs heavy with the bounty of the harvest. And, of course, with every harvest came festivals, and with every festival baking. Bread, dark and dense and rich with molasses or crackly and studded all over with seeds or delicately braided and dusted with citrus zest, all cut into thick slices and sending plumes of steam into the chill evening air. Pies of all kinds, dense, crumbly crusts filled to the brim with custard and sugared fruit, crowned with lattices of buttery dough. Tarts and cakes and biscuits, savory and sweet, bursting with every flavor one could coax from Zemnian soil. Caleb, though, remembers only the simplest fare - baked apples. Cooked soft and tender over a low hearth fire, filled with sweet cream butter, cinnamon and dark brown sugar. He remembers perching on his father’s shoulders as a young child, reaching to pluck the best fruit from their scraggly tree. He remembers reciting the recipe as a student, rattling off the measurements - certain and reliable - to ground himself. He remembers the first real meal he shared with Nott, so long ago now - begged apples and stolen spices, slightly scorched by the fire magic he could still scarcely bring himself to use. Imperfect and bruised and haphazard. It kept them warm, though, kept them fed, gave them the energy they needed to leave the gutter behind. It was theirs - theirs, to have and hold and keep, when so very few things were. That was enough.

Food, like so many other things, was something to be endured for Fjord. He grew up on bread burned to charcoal and stale, wormy hardtack, oily salted fish and the occasional bitter citrus slice - built to sustain but not to nourish. Just enough to keep an orphan kid on his feet and a lowly shiphand fit for work. Once he joined the crew of the _Tide’s Breath,_ though, things began to change. The memory has broken down into vague, disjointed pieces over time, but whenever he seems to need it most it washes in, steady as the evening tide. Steering the vessel into the shipyard in Nicodranas, being sent off down the dock with a small pouch of coins and a “go have a good time, kid" from Vandran, wandering down the rambling paths of the Open Quay. Warm light and laughter spilling out into the street, blending with the rushing music of the waves. And the tiny, rickety bakery crammed between trading booths and boardwalk stalls, row upon row of delicate seashell pastries filling the air with the scent of saffron and cinnamon. Taking that first bite, butter and sweetness melting on his tongue, marked the changing of the tide for him - deliberately turning his back on so much tired old misery. Even now, so many years later, as he casts the falchion and every gods-awful thing it stands for into the fire, the taste of sweetness and spice dances on his tongue. 


	7. honeysuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yasha and honeysuckle and reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I forgot to mention this last time, but shout out to the lovely folks at Critical Bakes on tumblr for inspiring this little series of food - centric drabbles! :)  
> I haven't had as much time to write recently, so this is a little shorter than usual, but I hope you all enjoy this little bittersweet ode to the best gentle barbarian all the same.

The Dolorav Tribe found few things sacred - there was no sense in it, amid the chaos of life on the fringes of a battlefield. Food was viewed with little sentiment - it was fuel, nothing more. Rations were simple, tasteless affairs - rice and root vegetables, overcooked to gluey mush with thin, stringy scraps of spider or tough, fire - roasted rat. Spices were occasionally traded from the distant markets of Rosohna to celebrate particularly significant victories - the dry, warming burn of Xhorhasian bonnets and sharp ginger cutting through the blandness - but such celebrations were rare indeed. The sparse forests of the Northern wastes hold a closely - kept secret, though - the honey - grove. Honeysuckle vines thrive in the splashes of sunlight that filter through the ashen leaves, growing into a verdant patchwork of green tendrils and pale flowers dripping with nectar. Zuala was the one to find this place, when she was but a girl, and the mild summery sweetness always brings memories of her to Yasha’s mind - her bright eyes, her dimpled smile, the spray of freckles across her apple cheeks, the steady deftness of her wide, scarred hands as they wove braids into her battle - sisters’ hair. Her deep, wild laugh. The way Celestial tripped off her tongue, the language of angels sweeter in her roughened voice than it had ever been in Yasha’s own. 

Empire honeysuckles, with their syrupy fragrance and bright yellow petals, are nothing like the ragged, sturdy blooms of Xhorhas. The people she shares their nectar with now are nothing like that wild - wind girl from so long ago. But maybe that’s alright. There are new memories here - Molly delicately plucking the petals and flourishing them around like handfuls of confetti; Jester’s eyes lighting up like twin blue sparks at the rush of sweetness; Veth perched on Caleb’s shoulders, reaching to gather careful handfuls of blossoms while he held her steady, a rare ghost of a smile gracing his face. They won't replace Zuala - she doubts anything will ever take the ache of her away - but they're here and hers all the same.


	8. nicodrani coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau and coffee and the little spark of joy of having something that's truly yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little more difficult to write - I adore Beau, but I can't always seem to figure out her voice. Anyway, I hope you folks are having a lovely day and take time to have a cup of a comforting beverage of your choosing. 
> 
> (And if you're interested in more flowery writing and lurid over - description of spices, I made a uquiz about tea and fae strangeness that you can take here:  
> https://uquiz.com/QMhsFg  
> )

Despite its reputation, Kamordah is not a good salt -of -the - earth Empire village. In fact, Kamordah is not a salt - of - the - earth anything - it’s built on mud. Not the rich, deep - rooted loam of the Zemni Fields, not the dry, snowy shale of the Crispvale mountains, not the salt - stricken sand of the coast or the well - trodden red clay of the Amber Path. Mud. Thick, mucky, ever - present. Pooling in the fields, filling the gutters, sloshing into pits and hollows. Littered with dying leaves and sharp flecks of rock. The sort of sludge from which nothing - not even the bitterest of shriveled grapes - ever grows. 

In these sparse conditions, sugar - seekers have to get diligent. And occasionally sneaky. Beau, naturally, developed a knack for both. By the time she turned fourteen she’d pared her method down into a precise, daring science. Creep out of the Lionett estate through one of the opulent vaulted windows, clamber through the scraggly trees and touch down light as a cat on the dirt just outside the main gate. From there she’d slip from shadow to shadow down the main muddy road, quietly delighting in the splash of filth against her too - pristine clothes. She’d count the dim glowing lanterns outside each of the shuttered storefronts and feel the earth under her feet, trusting them to guide her. Three, four, five oil lanterns later, after the dull thud of packed earth under her boots shifted to the clatter of stone, she’d arrive. Golden Apple Cafe and Confectionery. Kamordah’s only treasure. 

The little place looked humble on the outside - a squat one - room building crouched at the very edge of the town square. Its sole window was neatly polished but small and spiderwebbed with cracks, and the flowerbeds that framed its solid wood door were always half wilted and dry. Warmth and homey light spilled over the threshold even still. The halfling lady behind the counter would always give Beau a conspiratory wink when she walked in, asking her about her latest escapades with more genuine interest than she’d ever experienced and “accidentally” jotting down an order of Nicodrani coffee. 

Beau’d never had much of an interest in coffee back then - it was something her father always drank, burnt black and acrid in some ridiculous show of “practicality” and “good sense.” The hiss of steam and bitter scent in the morning always gave her the cue to stay in bed another hour until he’d left. But this was different. This was a lightly sweet, comforting affair, swirled with a float of sweet cream and dusted with spices, bright and hot on the very first sip and mellowing to a warming burn. This was hers - something she sought out, something she’d found, something that was given to her without a snide comment about how much she’d need it to get her work done or how she could drink it much more elegantly if she really tried or to not make it a habit because of how deeply shameful it would be for a Lionett to overindulge. This was hers. It was warm and spicy and sweet as she damn well wanted it to be, and _that was okay._

Now, as she and the Nein pick their way through the crowded markets of Nicodranas, Jester barreling ahead in a blur of blue ribbon and laughter, she lingers by the coffee vendor’s stall for just a moment and wonders. Maybe - just maybe - it doesn’t have to be just hers alone anymore. 


	9. we will call this place our home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Xhorhaus, the people who live there and the slow, steady process of building a home together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you lovely readers and commenters - I appreciate you all so very much and you give me the inspiration to keep writing. This fluffy little found family story is for you. <3
> 
> Also! I made a little playlist on Spotify to go along with this chapter if you'd like some background music:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/38ZNO5PQ3hptxZXDu3na04?si=f75OFLAdQraZYnmWIzOA2Q  
> It features pop punk ballads and soft acoustic tunes, all dedicated to the amazing ragtag family that is the Mighty Nein.

The Xhorhouse sat empty for a long, long time. Tucked away into a shadowy corner of Rosohna and forgotten, left to collect dust and spiderwebs in its drafty, echoing halls. No lights flickered beyond its many frosted windows, no shadows danced across its ornately painted walls, no movement stirred its damask curtains beyond the flitter of moths and the whisper of the wind. It became known as the “lonely house” among the city dwellers - a place where even the Beacon’s light went dim. 

Then the residents arrived. They barreled through the city, all laughter and chaos and loud, wild noise. They took the empty shell of that empty house and molded it like clay beneath their hands into a bright shining place. The ragged man with the cat wound around his shoulders snapped sparks into existence, lighting candle after candle until the rooms were awash in amber pools of light - bringing warmth back to a place that had for so long been so cold. The one with the buttons and the dancing yellow eyes arranged a collection of treasures with canny care - river rocks and gemstones and blue - gray glowing vials, all sparkling like stars in the gloom. 

The one in the blue dress brought the empty walls to life with color, splendid murals taking shape with every careful brushstroke - swirling cloaks and fields of flowers and dancing figures intertwined with images more mischievously graphic but no less beautifully rendered. The one in the robes bounded like a deer through the halls, kicking up the dust in clouds and throwing open the doors to let the light stream in. 

The quiet one clad in black carefully wove handfuls of flowers into sweetly perfumed crowns, each tailored with gentle care to fit her motley companions. The one with the scent of salt and the shadow of exhaustion clinging about him like a cloak checked the doors, drew the curtains, stoked the fire hotter to ward off the dark and keep his crew warm a while longer. And the tall spindly one with the low rumbling voice ambled alongside him, coaxing new, brilliant green life from the barren withered soil. 

The Xhorhouse sat empty for a long, long time. But now it stands, warm and welcoming and bright and loud, as a home. 


	10. world of darkness / urban fantasy not!fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of thoughts and various headcanons on the Nein's urban fantasy adventures into a softer World of Darkness. (based off of White Wolf RPGs - there are a few specific details here and there that might be a little confusing, but prior knowledge shouldn't be required!)

Lots of navigating complicated power networks while not fitting into any particular organization - especially with the Two Humans in the party and their slightly shady information - gathering connections. Beau’s still in regular contact with the Cobalt Soul as an expositor and while Caleb definitely doesn’t work with a formal mage organization anymore, he’s still a researcher with ties to invasive, snooping magical academia that make a lot of faction leaders slightly nervous and quite angry.

Jester, Veth, Beau and Molly gatecrashing fancy parties using a revolving list of increasingly ridiculous fake names, to the varying amusement and outrage of faction (especially Masquerade) elite. Molly regularly shows up wearing an ostentatious ball gown with his coat draped across his shoulders like a shawl or a suit in the most eye - searing color he can find, the curling tips of his horns painted to match his immaculate nails. Beau wears her sharpest charcoal gray suit and shiny polished shoes and feels comfortable in formal clothing for the first time in a long, long while. Jester braids Veth’s hair into a crown shimmering with diamond pins to compliment her champagne pink dress and they dance sweeping, dramatic tangos to every single song. Jester is a vision in deep blue and silver, little doughnut earrings catching the candlelight like fallen stars. (If there happen to be little dicks and Traveler’s doorways embroidered along her sleeves, well, that’s for her to know.) They end up getting crossed off the guest list and turned away at the door from just about every remotely supernaturally inclined party within twenty miles, but it’s well worth it. 

Fjord befriending water - dwelling fae and sprites like selkies, kelpies, sirens and nixies, listening to their wild music and being quietly grateful for a chance to connect with people who understand his longing for the sea. On late nights, under the watery moon, he’ll nod along to the sweet violin and let his salt - roughened voice join the choir, lost in the music of the waves.

Yasha finding comfort and closure with fallen devils and sin eaters - so - called “evil spirits” cast out from the places they once called home, helping her to not feel so ashamed of her skeletal wings until they feather once again.

Yasha revealing her true form as a radiantly beautiful and terrifying seraphim when she rages - spectral, glowing eyes flickering into being, a sound like church bells and thunder and wind, celestial runes searing into existence and burning from gold to ashen black.

The Ruby of the Sea being well - known among all of the faction elite, beautiful and charming and incredibly, incredibly powerful. Secrets are their own kind of valuable currency in the World of Darkness, and in that regard Marion Lavorre is far richer than most.

Artagan being a disgraced spring court fae infamous for being both shady and too soft - hearted toward mortals. The more powerful true fae look down on him in particular for this and regularly rail against him, claiming that his powers are wasted on him.

The Clay family earning a reputation for being benevolent eccentrics settled on the very cusp of the Hedge, willing to help lost travelers of any kith and comfort grieving souls, alive and undead, as best they can. They’re fae of some kind, definitely, but their particular brand of strangeness is difficult to pin down. 

Beau scouting out shady faction dealings and reporting back to Dairon, making sure that even the most powerful denizens of the World of Darkness know that they’re not above the rules. She may be young and human and non - magic, but she’s got a bo staff and an itemized list of regulations and she’s not afraid to use either one.

The Lorelei siblings becoming the face of garou leadership, elegant and graceful and well - mannered enough to go toe to toe with the snootiest of Toreador kindred but just the right amount of wild.

Aurra Lorelei bounding through the forest in her wolf form under the radiant moon, fae shapechangers and garou racing beside her, churning up the hard - packed earth and leaf litter with thundering paws, never having to run alone again. She returns home early the next morning with mud on her clothes and leaves in her hair, breathless and buzzing with the joy of the wild. 

Razor - sharp, ambitious, silver - tongued Portia Lorelei commanding a room full of all powerful ancient beings with a glance, the slightest flicker of wolfish yellow dancing in her eyes. She loves her older siblings, and she knows they could do this if they really wanted, but this is what she was born for.

Changeling Veth, escaping into the Hedge as a bullied young girl full of hope that her strangeness that led to so much torment on this side would be treated more kindly in faerie-land. (It wasn’t. Fae are many, many things, but accepting is scarcely ever one of them.)

The young Lorelei twins getting bored when their father hosts diplomatic meetings and wheedling an older sibling (usually Lucius) into helping them cause trouble, gamboling across the estate grounds like restless puppies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely partner has been running a World of Darkness campaign with our friend group on the weekends and it's been so much fun. This chapter is dedicated to her and our shared love of Critical Role and WOD weirdness. (I love you dearly, my ragtime gaaaaaal <3)
> 
> Some vocabulary for folks who aren't as familiar with the White Wolf RPG canon:  
> The Hedge - the divider between the world as we know it and the fae realm, a weird and wild place filled with overgrown brambles and twisting paths
> 
> The Masquerade - both the key tenant of vampire / kindred society and a shorthand word for the governing bodies that rule it
> 
> Sin eaters - people who have passed away but are revived through a pact with restless spirits called geists; kind of like a warlock / patron situation
> 
> Garou - umbrella term for shapechangers, but often specifically used in reference to werewolves and their societies


	11. embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mighty Nein and hugs and expressions of love in its many forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had much time to write recently with college starting up, but my partner and I were chatting during the stream on Thursday and the topic of Caduceus hugs came up and I knew I needed to write bittersweet hug headcanons for the whole party.  
> I hope you folks are doing well, taking care of yourselves and getting hugs when you need them. Stay safe out there. <3

Yasha hugs like an apology - gentle, hesitant, painstakingly coordinated, folding her loved ones into her arms with all the tentative grace and care she can manage. Every movement trembles, heavy with the acknowledgment of her strength and her careful, careful restraint. She will not allow herself to hurt her family again - she has been made a weapon far too many times to run the risk.  
(The carefree ease with which they run up to embrace her makes her anxious to no end, rabbit heart leaping in her throat, but she holds them close and accepts their trust all the same, determined to one day believe that she deserves it.)

Beau isn’t really used to hugs. She doesn’t quite know how to give them, and she certainly doesn’t know how to accept them. Whenever one of the Nein bundles her up in their arms, she seems caught off guard, startled and jittery, primed to leap away. She holds herself tense and stiff for a long moment before relaxing fully into the embrace, closing her eyes and holding on white - knuckled like she never wants to let go.  
(And she doesn’t, truth be told. Girls like Beau grow up like scavengers, hiding away every scrap of affection they can find for safekeeping. A good hug is rarer than platinum and worth every bit as much.)

Caduceus isn’t especially used to hugs these days either - at least not these kinds of hugs. His family trained him well in the art form of comforting, and he has plenty of experience to go on, but he recognizes that soothing a grieving stranger is a very different practice from - what it is these people are to him.  
(He still doesn’t quite know. He does know that they’re kind, and they’re brave, and they work so hard to do good things, and they are intrinsic to the path he’s meant to follow- petals to the flower he’s been tending for so long. He knows he cares about them. Maybe that’s all that really matters.)

Jester hugs like she does just about everything - with exuberance and decadence. She races over and skids to a stop and lifts and whirls and holds on tight, wrapping her friends in a cloak of warmth and the scent of sugary expensive perfume. She loves fiercely, deeply, in - your - face and unforgettable, vowing never to let a single one think for a second that they’re unloved.  
(She lived like that, lonely and forgotten, for so, so long. And it hurt more than she can say. No one is ever going to have to deal with that on her watch.)

Caleb’s hugs, like many things about him, are a hold - over from his student days - one - armed and slightly distracted, a precarious armload of books tucked against his side and a flicking cat tail gently bapping the recipient in the face. They’re comforting, though, and warm. He radiates a gentle, distinctly arcane warmth, like that of a candle flame, that he claims to know nothing about and promises has nothing to do with the light spell transcriptions scrawled in his notebook.  
(He will never be good enough for these people, they will only be hurt by his presence, he doesn’t deserve them and he knows that- but he can try to be enough. With light spells and purring cats and amber domes and magic mansions, over and over he can try. They deserve that much.)

Veth’s hugs are treasures, cherished exuberant things that she launches herself into and savors for all they’re worth. All her life she’s been treated as a diseased thing, like her strangeness was somehow contagious. Few people would want to be caught dead showing the clumsy, awkward Smyth girl affection - fewer still the thieving goblinkin wrapped in filthy bandages. Now that she has the means and the opportunity, like any good thief, she’s going to jump at the chance to make up for all of that lost time.  
(But it doesn’t really feel like stealing in this case - it’s not getting away with something. These people love her - really love her - and she loves them. She’s not running on borrowed time, counting down the seconds until they wake up and realize she’s not worth it. It’s an unfamiliar thought, but a comforting one.)

And Fjord - changeable, mercurial, silver - tongued Fjord - his hugs are quiet things. Wordlessly stepping into an embrace and closing his eyes, breathing deep and slow. They’re rarer than most - he doesn’t exactly consider himself to be the affectionate type - but they’re comforting in their own subtle way, like the roll of the waves late at night.  
(He doesn’t admit it to himself until many months into their journey, sitting on the deck of their ramshackle ship under the stars, but they’re steadying. Grounding. A reminder that this is his body, his mind, his choice. His family.)


	12. ficlet inspired by jadequarze's evil!au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of Nicodranas know better than to use her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a change in tone with this one! Powerful, dangerous mob princess Jester is one of my favorite things, but it's definitely a darker concept than I usually write about. Hope you folks enjoy it all the same!
> 
> Go check out jadequarze's awesome art on tumblr if you haven't! All of the credit for this AU goes to them.
> 
> Minor content warning for mentions of blood and violence, but nothing is graphically described.

The people of Nicodranas know better than to use her name. They learned long ago what happens to those foolish enough to speak of her without proper respect. They saw the shadows in the alleyways; heard the ever - so - delicate click of bootheels on the cobbles, the lightly hummed tune; caught the glint of the knife in the lamplight and the way the brackish harbor - waters ran red. They know better. 

She is whispered about in epithets these days, as all rightly powerful things should be. “The princess in blue.” “The jaded sapphire.” “The most gracious lady.” “The cheery one.” “The laughing phantom, the black - gloved one, the cloak - and - dagger queen.”

When she calls you into her office, buttoned - up and beautiful, she leans back in her chair, accepts the kiss upon her hand with a smile sharp as a blade and murmurs, “You can call me Jester.”


	13. ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yasha and Molly and adventures in amateur body art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These circus kids love each other so dang much. I recommend listening to Traveling Song by Ryn Weaver while reading for maximum warm and fuzzy friendship feels. <3  
> Hope you all are doing well and taking care of yourselves!

“You have no tattoos on your back.”

It’s a quiet observation, softly voiced as ever, but it still breaks through the stillness of the rainy evening and startles you into almost dropping the cards you’ve been half-heartedly shuffling. You flick through them - Dragon, Anvil, Moon, Eye, fanciful bullshittery all - and tap them back into some semblance of order before turning to your tentmate with what you hope is a roguish grin.

“Indeed, indeed. Real shame too. Always thought it was a prime piece of real estate, but with this -” you jab a finger back at that blasted red eye, set into the base of your spine. “No luck. Every artist I asked said they felt like it was staring at ‘em.”

Yasha nods at this, a hesitant smile ghosting over her ever - stoic face. “I’m not bothered by them.”

“And you’re a gem for that, dear. One in a million.” 

“I mean that I - I could fill in the space for you. If you wanted.”

That gives you pause. “You’d do that?” An unexpected spark of warmth blooms in you at the thought. 

“Of course. It’s a bit of a tradition where I come from, you know. I have practice.”

“Well, in that case, I submit fully to your artistic whims and leave myself in your capable hands. Do you want me to -” you tug at your clothes, for once without an accompanying waggle of eyebrows - “or should I wait for you to get set up first?”

“I don’t have much setting up to do. Just have to get a pot of ink. It won’t be permanent,” she says as a mild afterthought, turning to rummage through her pack. “I hope that’s okay. I don’t have needles.”

“Always okay. Much as I’d like to preserve your lovely work, of course.”

After another lengthy stretch of silence, punctuated by the drumming of the rain, she gives a triumphant little hum, producing a set of incredibly delicate - looking wooden brushes and a tiny clay jar etched with swirling flowers. 

“Now you can” - she makes an awkward gesture with the end of her still firmly - fastened breastplate - “and sit here.”

You oblige, shucking off your tunic and settling comfortably onto the hardpacked earth with a flick of your tail. She kneels behind you, seeming to hover and consider for a moment before you feel the feather - light touch of the brush on your skin.

It’s so gentle. Softer than anything you’ve ever felt in your short two years. You close your eyes and just breathe, feeling its swirling, tracing pattern. Trusting it. Trusting her. 

For the first time in a long while, you just - are. You’re not empty. You’re here, in this tiny smoky tent, with the rain on the canvas and the ink on your skin and this - this friend, sitting with you, her hands steady and sure and careful, singing under her breath in a language that flows like honey, sweet and languid, from her lips. 

She’s a friend, this one. It makes you smile. 

You’re not sure how much time passes before the brush finally lifts away. Your friend shuffles behind you, capping her jar of ink before reaching once more into her pack and producing a thin mirror shard wrapped in cloth. She passes it to you with a nod and a nervous wring of her ink - spattered hands.

You shift and twist, baubles jingling as your horns get in the way -

And then you see them.

Wings. She’s given you wings. Beautiful, sweeping, delicately feathered wings, opened in flight over that damned, cursed eye, blotting out its red stain with grace and beauty the likes of which you’ve never seen. Never thought you’d ever see, that day you clawed your way out spitting grave dirt and ash, empty empty empty empty no longer - 

You pull her, this wonderful, wonderful friend, into a hug and even as the tears burn at your eyes, you feel like you can fly.


	14. the girl who fought the wyvern (witcher au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yasha Nydoorin was never particularly well-liked by the people of Novigrad.
> 
> Then the wyvern came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witcher! Yasha is my favorite thing, this was so much fun to write <3
> 
> She fits the lone, wandering monster slayer archetype so well! (And Molly would definitely be her obnoxious accompanying bard that she's exasperatedly fond of but keeps having to get out of trouble because he thought it was a good idea to sleep with an incubus)

Yasha Nydoorin was never particularly... well - liked by the people of Novigrad. Daughter of a reclusive herbalist and a wayward soldier, the girl had an air of mystery about her that always put them off. An “inauspicious” shadow cast over the poor child from birth. The more pious servants of the Eternal Flame repeatedly offered blessings to her family, rituals meant to set the girl on the right path - and surely they wanted what’s best for the little darling, didn’t they? Surely they didn’t want their only daughter spending all her time muddy in the gardens or wandering the city in the rain? Surely they wanted her walking the right road, untroubled by the wicked touch of - they shuddered to even think it - magic? 

The little darling got older, grew up tall, strong and quieter still. Their frowns deepened. Their whispering grew harsher. 

Then the wyvern came. 

It was storming, that fateful day, the skies boiling with dark, angry clouds. Rain poured down in sideways sheets, thudding upon the cobbles with the din of a marching army. The roll of the thunder was just enough to mask the snap of leathery wings. 

When the girl saw it, standing as she was under the eaves of the city forge, the creature was skimming over the rooftops in a graceful loop, backlit by the violent flashes of lightning. Its black scales glinted in the light like polished obsidian. Its wings, long and broad as sails, stretched and flexed with wiry muscle. Its bright yellow eyes shone with vicious, proud intelligence.

Its bright yellow eyes, which were rapidly getting closer.

The thud of its claws on the stone seemed to echo throughout the entire city. The furious, spitting hiss that followed shook her to her core. 

The girl stood firm. She breathed deep. With a murmured apology to the smith, she drew a blade from the forge rack, looked the creature square in its devilish eyes and _hissed back._

Black ichor spattered the stone. Pavers burned away in a shower of acidic venom. The girl ducked and rolled and threw her weight behind the blade with each desperate stab, feeling the roar of her thundering heart, the sweat course down her face, the weighty rightness of the sword in her hands, her blood singing with sparking, joyous, boundless rage.

When the city awoke the next morning and crept timidly out into the street, the creature lay dead. 

The girl was still standing. 

The whisperers dubbed her the “little witcher,” in the days that followed. The foolish, reckless, wild beast of a girl who stared down a wyvern and won. 


	15. eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all of the things in the heavens and earth that should keep two goddesses apart, schedules should realistically come in dead last. (inspired by jadequarze's sun and moon au on tumblr!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more obviously romantic this time around, but I think these lovely ladies deserve it. <3 
> 
> The link to the beautiful art that inspired this:  
> https://jadequarze.tumblr.com/post/636355651380051968/even-if-we-see-each-other-just-for-a-moment-we

Beau has faced down monsters, done battle with titans, journeyed across the treacherous expanse of the sky so many times its currents and swirls are as familiar as the lines on her own hand. And yet here she is. Stumped by timetables.

At least there’s a nice view from here. The garden of the Hesperides sprawls out below her from where she sits on the hill, awash in the golden glow of the sunset. The air is filled with the delicate, heady scent of apples, flowers, the bright salty tang of wind sweeping in from the sea. Far below, the waves are still and calm as mirror glass, reflecting the starburst of warm colors painting the early evening sky - Caleb’s fiery work, no doubt. 

Lovely. Still not as beautiful as the one she’s waiting to meet. 

It’s been some time since she’s been able to consistently see Jester. The spring and summer, with their long, languid days, have always been in Beau’s sphere of influence, and the evenings always feel stiflingly short. The moon would rise with the sunset, Jester would sweep in charming and wonderful as always, and in a few moments’ time she’d be gone again and Beau’d need to get back to work. 

She loves her duties, she really does - being the sun - bearer is wonderful. But sometimes it wears on her. Sometimes she looks around from her perch at the zenith and realizes how cold and lonely it all is. 

Lost as she is in her musings, she doesn’t realize right away that the sky above her is changing. Caleb’s sunset is fading away quicker than normal. The inky night washes in in waves, deep and rich and velvety dark. And there - at the very edges of the dark expanse - that silvery flicker. 

But there’s no sun in the sky. Just a burnt, blackened circle slung low over the horizon. _And there’s no moon._

Beau scrambles to her feet, reaching for her staff, heart racing as the stark clarion call of _monster monster monster shit she’s gonna get hurt_ fills her mind. “Fuck, wait, what’s happening -” 

“Eclipse,” says a voice from behind her, musical with laughter.

And there she is.

She appears in a riot of cool light and joy. Achingly, gloriously beautiful in her silver gown, the stars bursting into fiery being all around her like gems adorning her. 

Mortals, Beau realizes faintly, would be crumpling before her in awe if they could see this. It takes all her strength not to immediately do the same.

“How - Jess - we’re not allowed to -”

“The Traveler owed me a favor and I told him I wanted to see you,” she says, mischief alight in her eyes. “It won’t last super long and it’s really hard for him to keep up so we kinda gotta hurry but it’s. It’s nice to be here. I missed you.” 

She pauses for a moment, turning to Beau with an even wickeder grin dancing across her face, dimpling her star - freckled cheeks. “And! The Traveler told me a really _interesting thing_ about how eclipses work. I thought you’d find it _really interesting_ too.”

Jester closes the distance between them, drapes her glittering shawl delicately around Beau’s shoulders, settles gracefully into _Beau’s lap_ _dear gods this girl’s going to kill her_ _and she will die happily_ and kisses her on the cheek before leaning over to whisper sweetly in her ear. “The moon covers the sun, he told me. So I thought, if you’re okay with it too, we should _follow tradition.”_

Beau frantically nods with all of the energy she can muster and closes her eyes into the kiss that follows, sweet and warm as the rising sun. 


End file.
